The
pink children’s bicycle grins at me, but I don’t smile back. “You will be
sorry for this,” I murmured, but just loud enough for Dad to hear.
“Oh
no, I won’t. Trust me. Only five minutes and that’s all it will take.” He
lifts me up and settles me on the bicycle, smiling with patience.
I
have no way to escape. Okay then, I think. “This will be the first and last
time I’ll ride a two-wheeled bike!” I shout.
“Sure,”
Dad says, still smiling.
As
Dad pushes the bicycle, I feel two wiggly wheels start rolling on the road.
“Sorin,
your feet are not even on the pedals!”
“I
know! I’m trying! Just remember to keep your hands holding my bike.” I touch
the pedals cautiously and wonder how much it will hurt to have my feet stuck in
the wheels.
As
I steps the pedals, bicycle stops joggling but the stableness stretches all my
nerves. I’m afraid that I will make an accident or something worse. I feel
like being an inexperienced baton twirler, who is performing the musical band in
front of crowed people. Suddenly, I hear applause from clicking wheels. I feel
much better, and kind of proud of my self.
The
pink bicycle cheers me up with a swinging rhythm; here goes one little cowardly
move, and here comes another one. I gradually feel the speed. The quickening
speed becomes excitement. Unexpected excitement turns into joy. I play jazz with
the harmony of passing winds and turning wheels.